


The Aria

by lesmisloony



Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Crossdressing, Gay And On The Floor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-22 04:50:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13159638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesmisloony/pseuds/lesmisloony
Summary: In high society, a romantic tryst is usually a quick way to raise your social standing or a method of blowing off some steam.  But Antonio Salieri and Aloysia Lange may have missed the memo that it's easier to choreograph an affair when both parties involved aren't disastrously homosexual.





	1. The Aria

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just going to operate by the same rules I set down for Macaron Girl since this only happened because yewgrove pointed out that it could be hilarious. Let's assume it's an alternate ending.

With one hand, Aloysia slipped a winter rose free from a bouquet someone had left at the foot of the stage; she ran the fingertips of the other along the edges of her lips, checking that the rouge she had applied that afternoon was still in place. If she had to endure one more sharp comment about her marriage from any of her little sisters, she was going to tear off a fistful of petals and stuff them into their mouths. So the librettist had returned Josepha's smile during the entr'acte, had he? She was going to be the first Weber to be invited to sing for the emperor, was she? Aloysia would see about that.

Constance and Sophie had dropped into empty seats at the front of the house and were cheerily discussing their favorite elements of the opera the four of them had just endured. Josepha was already buried into the crowd of admirers, trying with all her might to catch the librettist's eye. As for the librettist himself, he was shaking hands and receiving flowers, smiling cordially at the words of congratulation and taking no special notice of the gawkish woman in the old blue dress who kept batting her eyes at him.

Aloysia twisted her stolen rose between her fingers as she sized up the crowd. If Josepha, the tallest of the four sisters, was having trouble catching the librettist's eye, then Aloysia didn't imagine she would have more luck. The playing field was too even. She scanned the room again, searching for anything that would give her an advantage. Members of the public were dotted here and there about the room, clusters of good-natured conversation dragging on though the candles in the chandeliers overhead were already burning low. Then she spotted her chance, and a smile wound across her face.

The composer--the _court_ composer--had broken away from the crowd and was collecting his sheet music, unnoticed by the admirers who, like Josepha, were still basking in the attention of the librettist.  He stuffed his music into a satchel, cast a final nervous glance about the room, and turned toward the nearest exit, keeping his head down.  It only took a few quick steps for Aloysia to plant herself into his path.  She tucked the stolen rose into her hair and cleared her throat.

"Good evening," the composer said unhappily, his gaze darting over her shoulder toward the door.

Aloysia extended one arm, smiling as demurely as she knew how and watching him through her lashes.  "Maestro," she said, keeping her voice as fluttery as possible. 

He clasped her fingertips briefly, eyeing her knuckles but failing to bring them to his lips before he dropped her hand.

"I'm Aloysia Weber- _Lange_ ," she corrected herself.  Having sung under both names, it was hard to guess which the composer might recognize.  It also helped to insinuate that the existence of her husband was far from her mind.  "I'm a great admirer of your work.  The music you write--well, it's a dream of mine to sing in one of your operas someday."  

In fact, tonight was the first time she had heard this particular composer's work, and she had found it... passable.  Still, he was the emperor's favorite for whatever reason, and that made his work the best in the empire.

"You're a singer," the composer remarked.  It wasn't quite a question.

"A soprano," said Aloysia with a curtsy.  "I've sung in this very theater before, you know!  Before I came to Vienna I was engaged at the opera in Mannheim, and I sang for Mozart before that."

For the first time, the composer wrenched his stare away from the door.  "For Mozart?"

Aloysia swallowed a smirk.  Of course it would be music that held his attention.  Thank goodness all that time she had spent letting Wolfgang Mozart hang off her arm would finally amount to something.  "Have you heard Mozart's music, maestro?  He was younger then, but already a prodigy!  Why, he wrote an aria for me that I suppose has never been performed.  Such a shame that his talent is locked away in Salzburg now."

"You- you still have this aria?"

"Gathering dust in a drawer somewhere," Aloysia said with a wave of her hand.  "I always wanted to sing it, but without a teacher here in Vienna-"

"I can instruct you," interrupted the composer.

Aloysia clapped her hands, keeping her expression as bright as she could.  "Oh!  Would you?" she gasped.

The composer rifled through his satchel, tearing a page of parchment in half and scribbling an address in the corner.  "Ask for Salieri," he said as he thrust it at her.  "Bring the aria."

 

 

 

"If I hear the name Mozart one more time, I'm packing my bags and leaving this godforsaken city," Salieri lied, stabbing his quill into the inkwell so fiercely that the ink splattered over his fingers.

Da Ponte leaned his chair back on two legs and smirked at him.  "What, to go to Salzburg and ask for Mozart for his hand in marriage?"

On the other side of the room, Rosenberg let out a snort of laughter.

"For god's sake, Lorenzo," Salieri grumbled.

"You may be in luck," Da Ponte said lightly.  "There's talk that old Colloredo may visit Vienna this year and bring his entire household.  Including the Mozart family."

The tip of Salieri's quill snapped off under the sudden pressure of his fist, and a blob of ink oozed across his music.  He clenched his teeth and exhaled in a hiss.  "And?"

"And we may finally hear that famous music of his."

Rosenberg harrumphed, peering up at them over the top of his book.  "If there's one thing we don't need, it's that rapscallion bringing his ridiculous ideas to our stages, that's for sure!  He's a rogue.  Salieri, my friend, what has possessed you to be so interested in his work?"

"I don't care about Mozart's work!" Salieri said for what must have been the hundredth time, crushing his blotter beneath his fist.  One time!  He had made the mistake of mentioning that he would like to hear Mozart conduct one of his own pieces _once_ to Da Ponte after a long night of work, and the traitor had taken it upon himself to spread the rumor that Salieri was obsessed.  

Admittedly, Salieri didn't remember what exactly he had said about Mozart's music that night.  They had both been exhausted.  And there had been wine.

"Well, I'm curious, at least, hearing the way you talk about him," said Da Ponte.

Salieri rolled his eyes.

"What?"

"I didn't realize you were so well-versed in music," Salieri said dryly. 

"It's my duty to be well-versed.  I'm a poet."

"Barely."

"I think you'll find that I'm the _emperor's favorite_ poet," said Da Ponte in mock indignation.  

Salieri glanced over at Rosenberg and swallowed his retort.  Comments about the emperor's taste were best made in private.  And in any case, he was only sitting here because that same emperor had named him court composer.

"I wonder if the emperor will offer Mozart a commission while he's here."

Rosenberg's eyes bulged out at that.  "I should certainly hope not!" he tutted, scowling at Da Ponte over his spectacles.

Da Ponte just shrugged.  "I'd like to hear his work," he said again.  "Then we'd know what all the fuss was about."

"My new pupil claims to be in possession of an old aria of his," said Salieri.  "She's bringing it to her lesson tonight."

"A new pupil?" Da Ponte asked, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  "'She', you say?  I had no idea you consorted with the fairer sex."

"Of course I do," Salieri answered hotly.  "I don't know what you're suggesting."  He sneaked a glance at Rosenberg, who was flipping pages in his book far too fast to be reading them, his eyes trained in one place.  Lorenzo Da Ponte was going to get him executed.

"I only meant that if you spent more time attending to your needs, the very notion of music like Mozart's might not be enough to leave you knocking over inkwells and breaking quills," Da Ponte said.

Salieri fixed him with the blackest stare he could muster.  "Then I'll find out tonight, won't I?"

Da Ponte's grin was skeptical.  "I'm sure."

 

 

 

Josepha had been livid when Aloysia had emerged in her favorite day dress and announced that she had a lesson with Maestro Salieri that afternoon.  It was absolutely worth the time it had taken her to sort through her affairs until she found the crumpled pages of music Wolfgang had given her that day at the opera.  She checked her reflection in the looking glass one last time.  Not bad, she thought as she smoothed back a stray lock of hair.  It would certainly have been enough to impress Wolfgang, wherever he was.  She wasn't quite as sure what might appeal to Antonio Salieri.

It wasn't for lack of trying.  Aloysia had spent the morning calling on her best-connected acquaintances, letting each of them know about her upcoming lesson and asking, as innocently as possible, for advice.  She should have come away knowing a little of everything: his interests, his family, the kind of woman with which he was most often seen.  But even the shrewdest grin had faltered at the name Salieri.  As far as Aloysia could tell, the court composer was some kind of fanatical recluse who only went out in the company of his librettist, and who had appeared in Vienna one day and been commissioned to write an opera the next, without a single powerful relative or wealthy friend to speak for him.  One of her husband's friends mentioned that she had seen him eat four sugar rolls in under an hour during a reception.  Others claimed he never went anywhere but the theater and the palace.

One name was mentioned over and over, but Aloysia could not bring herself to act on it.  Every conversation had ended the same way: why not ask Caterina Cavalieri?  Aloysia had dismissed the question with a roll of her eyes each time, but she could not dislodge the name from her thoughts.

Caterina.  The soprano who had brought Salieri's opera to life so effortlessly, who had stood in the middle of that great stage and made it seem tiny beneath the spell of her voice.  Her lips had parted, and Aloysia had felt the world shift.  Caterina.

She hadn't dared to call on her, to introduce herself.  Even the thought of her set off a million warning bells in Aloysia's mind--in her heart.  She didn't have the time to be distracted from this one simple goal.  There were rules with dealing with men, even men like Salieri.  A lowered glance, the brush of her fingers on his arm, the accidental flash of an ankle, and he would lead her the rest of the way.  He would have to ask her to sing the lead by the time he finished his next opera.  He would owe it to her.  It would be the price of his clumsy hands on her skin.  But Caterina?  She didn't know what to make of her.  She couldn't find the words for what she wanted.  She didn't have time.

The antechamber in which Salieri received her was as barren as the descriptions of his interests her sources had provided: a fine harpsichord, a candelabra, a few elegant chairs, and a fire burning on the hearth.  Salieri had been seated at the bench; he rose when the footman showed Aloysia in and crossed the room in a few long strides.

"Maestro Salieri," she began, sinking into a curtsy, "I can't thank you enough for-"

"Is this the aria?" Salieri interrupted.  His fingers grazed over the crumpled music in her arms as though he were afraid to make contact with it.

She nodded, studying him as he slid the pages reverently out of her grip, as his eyes pored over the music almost hungrily. 

He didn't say anything else.  The fire crackled impatiently and a clock on the mantel ticked out each second as Salieri stood before her with the music in his hands.  She realized that she was holding her breath and let it out in a long, shallow sigh.  If she had not made such a fuss over going to the lesson in the first place, she might have walked right out of the room to see if he would have even noticed.  Aloysia had looked over the music years ago, long after she had left Wolfgang staring unhappily after her, and had thought it seemed like a nice tune.  It hadn't struck her as anything particularly important.  She wasn't even sure why she had kept it.  But from the look on Salieri's face, from the way his eyes fluttered closed and he pressed the music over his heart when he reached the last page, Aloysia had to assume that she had missed something.

After allowing him several long seconds during which he did not reopen his eyes, Aloysia finally let out a polite cough.  Salieri snapped to attention, the music sliding out of his arms and fluttering to the floor around him as he fixed a stare on Aloysia that left her feeling like he had no idea why she was in his house.  "My lesson?" she asked, forgetting to smooth the frustration out of her voice.

Salieri looked around the room, that odd stare of his jumping from Aloysia to the harpsichord to the pages that were scattered around his feet.  "Pardon me," he mumbled, and he went to work collecting the music and putting it back in order.

"Would you rather I sing something else?"

He paused at the suggestion, crouched in the middle of his sterile music room with his fingertips hovering over the last page.  Then he shook his head and snatched it up, dropping the bundle of music onto the harpsichord and taking a seat at the bench.

Aloysia had had her share of music teachers in her life, ranging from her father to the local choirmaster in Mannheim to Mozart himself.  Some lessons had left her exhilarated and inspired; some were forgettable.  But this lesson?  This lesson with Antonio Salieri could only have been described as bizarre.

They worked their way slowly through Wolfgang's aria, Salieri's fingers lingering over every chord, his eyes closing when her voice reached the high notes, his lips parting as he inhaled.  He offered no feedback; she only knew to improve her tone or adjust her pitch when a furrow appeared between his dark brows.  Aloysia felt that she served no more purpose than the harpsichord.  It was the music itself that Salieri had wanted to see.  He would probably have forgotten her name by the morning, if he hadn't already.

Without Salieri as her teacher, without lessons and without a liaison between them, what chance did she have of singing in his next opera?  What chance did she have of meeting the emperor?  Of dethroning Caterina Cavalieri?

By the time they reached the end of the hour, Aloysia was nothing less than desperate.  She watched Salieri stacked up the pages of the old aria, running a hand over them to smooth their curling edges, and she blurted, "Maestro Salieri, my husband is out of town and I'm loathe to return to that empty house.  It isn't safe in the evening for a woman on her own.  Might I stay for dinner?"

He fixed her with that empty look again, the same quiet stare she so often received from her husband.  It was the expression of someone who has just noticed a second footstool in front of an armchair, or a painting that only depicted the stretch of wall upon which it was hung.  It was the expression of someone who looked at her and who saw something that was completely unnecessary.  Someone who meant nothing to them.

Aloysia snatched the music out of his hands and barely repressed the urge to glower at him, clenching her jaw as she turned away.  "Forget it," she said sharply.  "You're obviously more interested in Mozart than in my voice.  I should have known."

To her surprise, she was halfway to the door when she heard his footsteps hurrying toward her; Salieri slid into her path, cutting her off before she reached the door.  "Stay for dinner," he said breathlessly, closing a hand over her shoulder and then immediately remembering himself and releasing her.  "It has nothing to do with- with Mozart.  Stay."

Aloysia folded the music against her chest and pinned a smile onto her face.  She hadn't expected that to work.

 

 

 

This had all seemed a lot easier before Aloysia Lange was sitting at his dinner table, frowning at the unruly stacks of papers that covered most of its surface and picking at her meal.

"Attending to his needs," Da Ponte had called it.  Well, Salieri called it "protecting his life".  He had only known this woman a few hours, and already she too was accusing him of being obsessed with Mozart.  Whatever Da Ponte had done, he had done it thoroughly.  And with Mozart on his way to Vienna later this year, it was only a matter of time until the rumors shifted.  It had happened once at the monastery in Padua: there had been a boy his age with sparkling eyes and an impish grin.  Salieri had lost everything.  These days, he had too much to lose.

Her gaze was heavy on him as he reached for another sugar roll and began tearing it into pieces over his plate.  He knew what to do, didn't he?  Sort of.  His older brother had shown him a book of engravings when he was a boy, and he had gleaned the rest from Da Ponte's incessant jokes.  Nothing about it was terribly hard.  He sneaked a glance at the woman, scanning the length of her angular frame.  That was precisely the problem, wasn't it?  He crossed his legs and sighed.  His body was quick to betray him in concert halls, salons, and opera houses, but now that he needed it... nothing.

Maybe if she would sing again.

Salieri shook his head and started to take a long swig of his wine, but stopped himself.  Da Ponte had made a joke about the effects of wine on a man in situations like these, hadn't he?  Salieri crammed a few pieces of sugar roll into his mouth instead.  He was starting to sweat.

"Maestro?" the woman said in that syrupy voice.

A piece of sugar roll was lodged in his throat.  Salieri picked up his wine glass, remembered what Da Ponte had said, and put it down again.  How had his mouth gotten so dry so quickly?  He was going to choke if he tried to answer her, and she would surely refuse to stay once she had seen his face turn as purple as his waistcoat.  Salieri picked up the wine glass again and took a tiny sip, then a long swig.  Dammit.

If she noticed that he hadn't answered, she didn't let on.  "Do you have someplace I could sit for a while?  I'm finding it warm in here."

Salieri cleared his throat and cast a regretful look at the remains of his sugar roll before he rose to his feet and led her to his sitting room.

It was a smaller space than the music room, and for that reason (or perhaps for the lack of visitors he received) he hardly used it.  His maid set herself to work bustling about the empty fireplace while Signora Lange bypassed the comfortable chair and arranged herself upon the couch.  When she patted the space beside her a cloud of dust rose into the air; Salieri quickly dropped into the seat in hopes that she hadn't noticed.

"It certainly isn't warm in here," the woman said, leaning toward him with that coy smile she favored.

The maid cast an apologetic stare over her shoulder and nearly dropped the kindling in her haste.  She managed to strike a match and bowed out of the room without even waiting to affirm that the flame had caught the logs.

Salieri gestured toward the fire.  "Better?"

"My hands are still cold," the woman said, and to Salieri's horror she held them out toward him.  "Are yours any warmer?"

He shrugged, eyeing her slender fingers and her long, pale arms.  It took all of his resolve not to shrink away, to move to the armchair on the other side of the room where he was safe.

But he wasn't safe, Salieri reminded himself, thinking of the way Rosenberg's eyes had narrowed that afternoon when Da Ponte had mentioned Mozart's name for the thousandth time and Salieri's face had gone hot.  One night, he told himself: he unclenched his fists and brought his palms up to rest against hers.

Signora Lange let out a dainty little gasp that she must have thought was appealing.  "Oh! I never noticed how lovely your hands are," she cooed.

"Alright," Salieri mumbled.

For the briefest moment, she fixed him with a sharp stare, but then it softened before Salieri had time to pull away.  She curled her hands around his and guided them toward her, placing them upon her hips and catching her lower lip between her teeth.

"Signora-"

"Call me Aloysia," she said, running her hands up the lengths of his arms and catching the back of his neck.  And then she pulled his head toward hers and pressed their mouths together.

In the rude stories his brother had read to him as a boy, kisses were ardent, passionate, were the beginning of a long night of ecstasy.  They were punctuated by gasps, by moans, were underscored by fumbling hands and ripping bodices.  Never had he imagined that they might be... uncomfortable.  Signora Lange's face was pressed to his, her little nose digging into his cheek, her breath tickling through his beard, their lips interlocked--and then she pulled away.  For the briefest moment, he could see that her lip was curled and there was a crease between her brows.  Then she clapped both hands over her face and burst into noisy tears.

"Um- Signora Lange?" Salieri asked, unsure whether he should remove his hands from her waist.  "Shall I- uh- would you-"

"Just send me away!" she moaned from behind her hands.

Salieri glanced up at the door.  "Uh," he said.

"My sisters were right!  I've lost my looks and my talent!  There's nothing left for me!"

Salieri gently took one hand away from her hip and patted her shoulder.

"I've made a fool of myself," she went on.  "I'm unlovable!" 

"No, come on, don't say that sort of thing," said Salieri.

"And why shouldn't I?  My husband won't have me!   _You_ won't have me!"

Salieri glanced at the door again.  "Don't- don't take it personally," he said, patting her shoulder some more and wishing the maid would come back or Da Ponte would burst into the room or the floor beneath them would collapse.  "I'm sure you're lovely."

She let out another tragic wail.

"Look, it has nothing to do with you.  I just prefer-" Salieri steeled himself, finally removing his other hand from her hip.  "I've never been attracted to- to-"

Signora Lange abruptly dropped her hands and turned that appraising stare on him.  Her eyes were dry.  "Women?" she suggested.

Grinding his teeth together, Salieri nodded.

"Oh," Signora Lange said.  She smoothed a stray lock of her hair into place and continued to watch him, her thin brows puckered.  And then she heaved a quick sigh and squared her shoulders.  "Well, I am."

"You're what?"

"Attracted to women."

"Really?"

She nodded.

Salieri crossed his arms and leaned back.  "If anyone finds out, they could exile me.  Or hang me."

"Well, they won't find out from me," she said. 

"Thank you."

They lapsed into a strange silence perforated by the drum of Salieri's pulse in his ears.  He clenched and unclenched his fists beneath his arms, watching the fire and waiting.  He had just put his very life into this woman's hands.  One word, and she could ruin him.

"Are you in love with Wolfgang Mozart?" she asked suddenly.

Salieri whirled around in his seat.  "What?  What?"

Signora Lange shrugged. "I could introduce you.  He's written me a few times over the years."

"I'm not in love with Mozart!" Salieri snapped.  "I've never even met the man!  I admire his music, that's all!"

"Alright," said Signora Lange.  "Sorry."

Salieri combed his hands through his hair, accidentally tugging part of it loose from its ribbon.  "You can't go around telling people I'm in love with Mozart.  You can't tell them any of this.  Please."

"I said I wouldn't."

"Please," Salieri said again.

She rolled her eyes, and suddenly broke into a giggle.  "Of all the people I could have tried to take as a lover!" she said.  "Of all the people who might have saved your reputation!"

"Right," Salieri muttered.  "We deserve each other."

And then Signora Lange tilted her head back and smirked at him, the first genuine expression he had ever seen from her.  "So we need each other, but we don't want each other?  Well, Maestro Antonio Salieri," she said grandly, the smirk spreading into an easy, self-satisfied smile.  "I think I've just had an idea."

 

 

 

When Salieri's eyes met Aloysia's from the pit, the edge of his mouth lifted in the slightest suggestion of a smile.  Aloysia winked, and an actual grin threatening to break across his face.  

Trust had made Salieri a different man than the awkward creature who had invited her over to hear Wolfgang's forgotten aria.  Aloysia stopped by several a week now for their lessons, making sure to be seen on the way in and to mention to as many acquaintances as she could where she was going.  Then she stayed for dinner, after which the two of them would retire to that little salon.  It had taken a few evenings of Aloysia's stories about times she hadn't quite fit in with her sisters before Salieri had told her about the boy he had known at the monastery.  The dam was broken after that: what had started as an arrangement to preserve his reputation and to revitalize her career had managed to become an unlikely friendship.  Tonight was the premier of his new opera, and he had written this role specifically for her.

Aloysia had always been proud of her voice, but with Salieri's help she found herself mastering runs and flourishes she had never dared try before.  The room was full, hundreds of well-groomed faces turned toward her.  Up in the grandest box, the emperor himself shifted in his seat.  Aloysia eased into the highest note of Salieri's aria and watched as he sat up straighter and the courtiers around him mimicked his response.  In another box, her sister Josepha crossed her arms; from the wings, her costar Caterina blew her a kiss.  The final note poured out of her like a sigh, and the audience burst into cheers.

 

 

 

Salieri caught Aloysia's eye again as the emperor beckoned him forward.  She was smiling that easy smile again that lit up her face and betrayed how young she still was.  She clasped a hand over her heart and he bowed his head in her direction.  The actors crowded around and the audience continued to applaud while he mounted the stage.  Salieri had written dozens of operas since he had come to Vienna, but this one felt different.  When the emperor congratulated him on his work, Salieri made a show of kissing Aloysia's hand in front of everyone.

While the emperor offered Aloysia a bouquet of roses, Salieri realized that a smile had crept across his face.  That day she had come to his house with that rumpled aria, he hadn't even known how to tolerate her.  How strange that a few months later he could feel such affection for such an intimidating woman!  It had been Aloysia's idea to write two leads into this opera so that she could sing alongside Cavalieri, and the emperor had obviously been delighted by it.  Aloysia passed her bouquet to Cavalieri and kissed her on the cheek, earning a few cheers from the crowd and a blush from her costar.

A hand pressed against the small of Salieri's back, and he turned to find himself facing Da Ponte.  "You see?" his friend called, bringing his lips close to his ear so that he could be heard over the crowd.  "I told you a woman would do you good."

Salieri glanced at Rosenberg, who was strutting around fussing at the dancers and pushing back enthusiastic members of the audience with his cane.  All of Vienna thought that Aloysia was his mistress, and he hadn't had to hear the name Mozart in weeks.  Salieri shot Da Ponte a quick grin.  "You're a wise man, Lorenzo," he said wryly.  "Even when you're wrong, you're right."

Da Ponte raised an eyebrow but didn't ask any questions.  Biting back a grin, Salieri returned to watching his friend and pupil bask in the attention of the Viennese people.

 


	2. The Waltz

"Will you stop fidgeting?" Aloysia sighed.

Constance dropped her mask back into place with a scowl.  "These feathers itch."

"Don't be insufferable," Aloysia said, regally smoothing her skirt across her lap with a gloved arm. 

Constance frowned up at her sister, though from her seat at her side it was hard to take in the entirety of her costume.  Aloysia was in a ridiculous green gown adorned with long black feathers that matched her own mask, with her hair piled neatly atop her head.  The skirt was just full enough to hide the subtle bulge of her stomach.  In another month Aloysia wouldn't be able to leave her house anymore, not until after the baby came.  If this was to be her last night out, of course she had had to make sure that she was in the grandest costume of any of them.  Constance was supposed to be dressed as a white dove, but she felt like a common sparrow at her sister's side.  "I still don't know why you're forcing me to come with you."

Aloysia just smiled haughtily at her.

From the other corner of the carriage, Antonio Salieri grumbled, "Nor do I."

"You'll thank me," said Aloysia, and that was clearly all she intended to tell either of them.

Salieri's eyes met Constance's for a moment and he grimaced good-naturedly before tying his own mask back into place.  Constance quickly turned to look out the window.  She didn't dislike Aloysia's friend, but there was still something strange about seeing the court composer outside of the context of an opera house.  She also wasn't sure if he knew that Constance knew that Aloysia wasn't actually his mistress.  That the baby that most of Vienna thought was Salieri's was actually her husband's.  Constance and Aloysia had shared a room when they were little: even now that Aloysia's marriage had separated them, there wasn't much that the sisters kept from each other.

That was why it was so unusual for Aloysia to refuse to tell either of them why she had insisted they accompany her to a masked ball that night.  Constance was unaccustomed to being on this end of one of Aloysia's schemes.

"Are we supposed to be recognizable?" Salieri asked, gesturing toward his ornate mask.

"It doesn't matter.  I'll make the introductions."

"Will we both be meeting the same person?" ventured Constance.

Aloysia didn't deign to answer.

Salieri flopped back against the seat with his arms crossed.  "If Rosenberg or any of his friends see me like this, I might as well throw myself into the river."

Aloysia swatted at Salieri's leg, chiding, "Antonio!  Don't talk like that in front of our baby!" and placed a hand over her belly.

On either side of his mask, Salieri's ears turned red.  "I told you not to joke about that," he muttered, sneaking a glance at Constance.  "It isn't funny."

"Neither was what you said!" Aloysia retorted.

Constance pointedly turned back to the window.  It really wasn't any of her business.

 

 

 

"What do you think?  Does it suit me?" Wolfgang asked, and when Nannerl looked up to answer it took all her reserve not to laugh out loud.  Her brother was modeling his costume in the doorway, the fine silks and tufts of tulle cutting a stark contrast to the sparse servants' quarters where Colloredo was having them stay while they were in Vienna.

"Well, I certainly doubt anyone will recognize you," Nannerl said.

"No?" Wolfgang beamed.  "I bet I can still find someone to bring back with me, even dressed like this!"

"Can you?"

"Absolutely," said Wolfgang, prancing about on the landing and pretending to curtsy to an invisible dance partner.  "Want to make a wager?"

"Alright.  Whoever comes home alone has to dress like this at the concert next week, too.  But without the mask!"

"It's a wager." Nannerl shook his hand, biting back her grin until he turned away.  Wolfgang had no idea what was in store for him.

The ball to which they had been invited was a lavish affair at the outskirts of town, hosted by a widow who was the last survivor of an old title.  With no heir to her famous fortune, the rumor was that she had decided to waste it as spectacularly as possible.  So many guests had been invited that their carriage had to stop nearly a mile away in the middle of the forest, rolling forward a few feet at a time while group after group disembarked up ahead.  Nannerl readjusted her mask self-consciously.  At a masquerade, it would be impossible to tell the nobility from the commoners, or the rich from the working class.  Was a costume rented or dingy from disuse?  Was that a duke disguised as a beggar?  Were these two of Colloredo's employees or members of the imperial court?  It would be difficult to say.  When Nannerl and her brother finally alighted from their carriage, they blended into the colorful crowd like two more blooms in an overgrown garden.

The ballroom was breathtaking: silk skirts and gilded shoes were packed tightly over the marble floors, crystals dripped from the ornate chandeliers overhead, and distant paintings adorning the ceiling seemed bemused by the costumed horde pouring in from the frosty night.  Wolfgang seized her hand and pulled her through the crowd, leaving her scrambling to avoid treading on the other invitees' dresses or feet, mumbling apologies as she collided with guest after guest, until finally they had joined the group of spectators who were pressed in around the quintet of musicians at the far corner of the ballroom.  While Wolfgang muttered to her about the pace of the song they had chosen and the form of the conductor, Nannerl rocked up onto her toes and scanned the crowd.

A hush fell over the room when their host was announced.  She appeared at the top of the stairs dressed as Venus, with a stuffed dove affixed to one shoulder and a sparrow on the other, and the guests applauded as she called upon the musicians to begin the first dance.

"Shall we?" Wolfgang asked with a grin.  "I doubt the orchestra will let me lead them dressed like this, so we might as well enjoy their sloppy playing as best as we can."

They were both out of practice, but the dance was an easy one: it was stiff and formal, giving Nannerl a chance to scan the rest of the crowd and Wolfgang time to figure out how to move without his feet tangling in his heavy costume.  The second time he tripped, he grumbled, "We could have just come as ourselves, you know.  There are enough people here that no one would have minded."

Nannerl just nodded, though behind her mask she was beaming.  A tall, elegant woman in a green gown laced with long black feathers had just joined the dance.  Her partner was just shorter than she, a well-dressed man with gleaming hair and a neat beard visible at the bottom of his mask.  They were just as the letters had described them.

A waltz began, and a new surge of couples filled the floor, separating Nannerl and Wolfgang from the other pair.  She gritted her teeth and tugged her brother back toward that side of the room, scanning for those two dark costumes among the jewels and pastel silks that adorned the other guests. 

This had to work.  For Wolfgang's sake.  For the sake of his music.

The first letter had been unsigned and had been waiting when they arrived in Vienna, addressed only to "Wolfgang Mozart's sister".  There had been a brief outline of the scheme and the instruction that if she was willing to participate she should leave a handkerchief hanging from her window that would be visible from the street below.  Nannerl had done so enthusiastically, and had practically pounced upon the second letter when it was delivered the following morning.  This was exactly the inspiration that her brother needed.  These three years since he had come home to Salzburg, he had been a shadow of the musician Nannerl had always known.  If only one of them was going to be able to compose, then Nannerl would do whatever it took to make sure that Wolfgang was writing to his full potential.  He needed a muse, and the author of the letters knew someone who needed Wolfgang just as badly.

The next time Nannerl and Wolfgang waltzed past the dark couple, the woman in the feathered gown caught Nannerl's eye.  She nodded, and Nannerl nodded back over Wolfgang's shoulder.  So this was the famous Aloysia Weber.  From that quick glance to the manner of her dress to the way she held herself against her partner, she was everything Nannerl had imagined she would be.  No wonder Wolfgang had been enchanted by her all those years ago.

The current of the dancers shifted, bringing Aloysia and her partner back toward Nannerl and Wolfgang.  Their eyes met again, but this time Nannerl released her brother and stepped back; this time Aloysia swung her partner a little too hard, and the man in black staggered across the floor into Wolfgang's arms.  Wolfgang let out a startled giggle as he caught him, and before either of their partners could return to them Aloysia seized Nannerl by the wrist and spun her away.  "Nannerl, I presume?" Aloysia purred.

Nannerl grinned.  "That went better than I expected."

 

 

 

Half an hour into the masquerade ball, and Constance found herself leaning uncomfortably against the wall and tersely shaking her head at any gentleman who tried to approach her.  Aloysia had dragged poor Salieri off into a dance the moment the music had started, promising Constance that she would be back and Constance would thank her. Salieri had shot her one last pitiful look over Aloysia's shoulder as they left.  That had been two songs ago.

It wasn't that Constance hated dancing necessarily, or that she hated the thought of flirting with an anonymous stranger at an opulent masked ball.  She was just frustrated by it all.  Every suitor her mother had pushed in her direction had been the same: coarse, crass, and oblivious, looking at her like a trophy rather than taking an interest in who she was.  The reality of men had turned out to be nothing like the stories she had heard when she was a child.  How was she supposed to stand for it?  She couldn't bear the thought of throwing her freedom away as Aloysia had done, of replacing her name with someone else's, of giving up the person she had always been in order to run a house and bear children.  It wasn't worth it, not for a clumsy kiss and rough hands on her skin.  Not for foul breath against her neck or the weight of a man atop her as Aloysia had described.  She had seen her sister's lip curl when she talked about her husband.  Constance's skin crawled at the thought of it.

And yet, there were times--alone in her room, of course, when the house had fallen still--that she tried to imagine something better, softer: a light touch, soft lips, a tender embrace.  She had started to admit it once or twice to Aloysia, but it was hard to put to words.  It was embarrassing.  What was she to say?  "Your husband sounds terrible, Aloysia; I hope I find someone gentler"?  Out of the question.  They were thoughts she would have to keep inside herself.

She had studied the bearing of the few men who tried to coax her into the dance, but none of them were quite right.  Their shoulders were too broad, their jaws too square, their hands too big.  She declined each time, crossing her arms tighter and tighter over her chest.

And then Aloysia came back in a flurry of laughter and feathers, and she was no longer with Salieri but with a small, slight stranger in an ill-fitting lavender jacket.  Constance straightened up, tugging her feathery skirt into place.  "Aloysia?"

"Constance, my dear sister!" Aloysia said grandly.

"Where's Maestro Salieri?"

The stranger let out a delicate giggle and clapped a little hand over the mouth of their grinning mask.

"The maestro has had an unexpected change of partner," Aloysia said, slinging an arm around Constance's shoulders and drawing her forward.  She pointed out at the floor.  "Look!"

There was Salieri in his fine black suit, his hair gleaming in the candlelight and his mask failing to hide that his ears were bright red.  His hands were planted rather uncertainly at the hips of a dancer in an overworked blue gown adorned with glimmering butterflies.  His partner's arms were wound around his neck; neither of them seemed to have any idea which was leading and which was following, much to the consternation of the couples around them.

"Who is that?" Constance asked.

"My brother," Aloysia's new partner replied, stretching out one of those small hands.  "You're Constance, right?  I'm Nannerl."

Constance took the hand uncertainly, searching the large brown eyes she could see on the other side of the grinning mask.  "But you're- are you a woman?"

Nannerl laughed again, and for some reason the sound coursed through Constance's chest like a spark of lightning.  Nannerl didn't let go of her hand.  "Come on," she said to both of them, "let's get out of here."

"I'll stay a little longer," Aloysia said, and Constance saw the glimmer of a smile behind her mask.  "You two go.  Take Salieri's carriage.  That will keep him from fleeing the scene if he finds out who his partner is."

"Perfect!" exclaimed Nannerl.  She turned her shining eyes back toward Constance.  "Shall we?"

Finding that her voice had suddenly abandoned her, Constance could only nod.

 

 

 

If Aloysia Weber had been everything Nannerl had expected, then her sister Constance was more than Nannerl could have dreamed.  She was golden hair and bright blue eyes in a shining white dress, soft shoulders and rosy lips, work-worn hands and flushing cheeks.  Nannerl couldn't bear the thought of releasing her hand, and Constance had yet to pull away.  "Which carriage is Salieri's?" Nannerl asked, and the shy smile that spread across Constance's lips made her heart hurt.

"This was Aloysia's plan?" Constance asked once they had spoken to a footman and were waiting out into the frosty courtyard.  "Send Salieri off to dance with your brother while you and I steal his carriage?  I don't understand."

"Apparently the maestro needed a push," said Nannerl.  "A literal one."

"Alright," Constance said, but the crease didn't disappear from between her brows.  A handsome black carriage had just pulled around to the front of the drive, and Constance released Nannerl's hand at last to go speak to the driver.  He must have been fine with whatever instruction Constance gave him, for a moment later she turned to Nannerl and smiled so brightly that it warmed the night air around her.

Mindful that she was dressed as a man, Nannerl helped Constance up into the carriage and clambered in after her, taking the seat at her side.  "Where did you tell him we're going?"

"Just back into town," answered Constance.  "I wasn't sure if you and I were supposed to- I mean, does Aloysia expect us to go to the same place?  It's too late for dinner."

"We've only been in Vienna a week," said Nannerl.  "I'm afraid I don't know anywhere to go but our lodgings." She removed her hat and mask, shaking her hair loose until the long brown curls fell around her shoulders.  When she looked up again, even in the dim carriage she could see that Constance's cheeks had gone pink beneath her white domino mask.  "Are you alright?"

"Just-" Constance's eyes darted nervously toward Nannerl, then back down to her lap.  "I don't know.  I knew you were a woman, but I didn't expect you to be so..."

Nannerl waited a beat.  When it became obvious that Constance wasn't going to finish the sentence, she suggested, "Feminine?"

"Pretty," Constance mumbled.

A fist seemed to close over Nannerl's heart.  She took a deep breath to steady herself.  "I'll admit, I thought the same thing when your sister introduced me to you."

Constance glanced up, wide-eyed, and turned away again.  But then she slid her hand across the seat between them, letting her fingers brush over Nannerl's.

The touch sang through Nannerl's veins, bringing a rare heat to her cheeks.  She waited until Constance looked up at her through her thick lashes.  "I think- that is, if you don't mind- I think I might need a push too," Constance said quietly. 

Nannerl laced their fingers together and brought Constance's knuckles to her lips.

 

 

 

From the first touch of Nannerl's soft lips to her skin, Constance's pulse began thudding through her ears like a drum.  How could this woman, practically a stranger, have seen with a glance the secret Constance hadn't yet dared to put to words?  How had Aloysia known enough to find her, to bring them together?  But if they had sent Salieri dancing off with another man, then maybe-

Nannerl turned Constance's hand over and pressed another kiss to her palm; Constance shivered, and she looked up at her with a grin.  "Is this the kind of push you meant?" she asked.

Constance grazed the fingertips of her free hand along one of Nannerl's long curls and nodded, not quite daring to reach for her.  "You don't mind?"

"Mind?  Do I mind holding the hand of a beautiful stranger?  Don't be silly."

"I meant- I mean, sometimes I've wondered- but I didn't think anybody else would- do you... can we-?"

Nannerl closed the distance between them, slid off Constance's mask, and caught her lips in a long, slow kiss.  The heat of her mouth, the weight of her body as she leaned into Constance, the tickle of her breath against Constance's cheek--nothing had ever shaken her so deeply before.  "My lovely Constance," she murmured when she broke away.  "I would do anything to you that you asked."

Constance heard herself make a noise that was more whimper than sigh, but had no time to be embarrassed about it before Nannerl kissed her again.

 

 

 

Nannerl awoke to the sound of a creaking floorboard in the hallway punctuated by one of her brother's breathy giggles.  She slipped out of bed, pulled on a housecoat, and cracked open the door just in time to see him press Salieri the door of his room with a sloppy kiss.  After they broke apart, the visibly-flustered court composer managed to work the door open and staggered backward into Wolfgang's room, shucking off his jacket and loosening his cravat as he disappeared from Nannerl's line of vision.  But Wolfgang looked up and caught her eye before he followed him.  "I hope you found those breeches comfortable!" he whispered theatrically. "As you can see, I'll be returning your dress to you in the morning!"

Nannerl stepped back into her room long enough to retrieve Wolfgang's lavender jacket from the floor and tossed it to him.  "I'm afraid neither of us lost the wager," she shot back, and then she pulled her door closed with a wink.

Constance sat up in Nannerl's bed with the sheet clutched over her breasts, starlight threading through her waves of golden hair.  "Who was it?" she whispered.

"Just my brother," Nannerl said, slipping out of the housecoat and dropping a kiss onto Constance's forehead.  Constance leaned into her touch, sliding her arms around Nannerl's waist and pulling her down onto the bed next to her.  "I could introduce you in the morning, if you'd like."

"Don't bother," answered Constance sleepily.  "I'm tired of being introduced to men."

"Good," Nannerl said.  "I'll keep you to myself." She kissed Constance's cheek and nestled into her warm arms.

If she could ever force herself to leave this bed, she would have to remember to thank Aloysia Weber. 


	3. The Symphony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sometimes you just gotta reuse side characters you made up for another fic)

For the first time in all the years she had known him, Maestro Salieri was late for their lesson.

She should have seen the look on the maid's face when she let her in and known that something was amiss, but it the possibility didn't even cross her mind.  Caterina had been coming to these lessons for years, like clockwork, and Salieri was already sat before the harpsichord when she arrived, every time.  Until today.  Today, she had walked in to an empty room, waved away the maid's apologies, and taken her spot by the harpsichord.  Surely the maestro would storm into the room with a mumbled excuse before too long.  But the clock on the mantle ticked on relentlessly and no one had come.

Half an hour had slid laboriously past. Caterina had given up waiting and was sat at the bench herself, running her fingers curiously over the keys, before she heard the door open.  She jumped to her feet, unsure whether she should apologize for taking the maestro's seat or whether he should apologize for making her wait for so long, but it was not Salieri who had entered the room.

"Aloysia!" Caterina said, a little relieved if the truth were to be told.  Her friend was always a welcome sight, tall and elegant and perfectly-composed.  She could warm any room with a well-placed word.

"Caterina," she replied in her delicate voice.  The name always sounded exotic on her lips.

Caterina plopped back onto the bench.  It was too early for Aloysia to look at her through her lashes like that.  It was unfair.  "Uh, is Maestro Salieri-?"

"Indisposed," Aloysia said with a sly smile. "He had a busy night."

Caterina looked down at her lap.  "Oh," she muttered, unsure what else to say.  Sometimes she wanted to kill Antonio Salieri.

And then Aloysia crossed the room and took a seat at her side, their backs to the harpsichord and their skirts brushing together, black on red.  Caterina sneaked a glance at Aloysia's swollen belly, then quickly dropped her gaze back to her own hands in her lap.  A scowl was trying to work its way across her face.  She bit the insides of her cheeks and swallowed hard.

"What have the two of you been working on?" Aloysia asked.

"Just some- I don't know.  A new opera, I think.  I'm not sure if he has a commission, though."

"He doesn't," said Aloysia.

Caterina's gaze wandered from her own hands to Aloysia's, to the pale skin of her arm above her silk gloves, to her long fingers.  But one of those hands was rested on her belly.  Caterina cleared her throat, spinning around on the bench to face the harpsichord.  "I'm afraid I never learned to play," she said.

Aloysia turned too, tucking her legs and voluminous skirts under the keyboard and peeling one of those long gloves away from her arm.  "I play a bit," she said.  "Would you like me to pretend to be Antonio?"

Antonio.  How strange to call him anything but Salieri.  As though he were a man who existed outside of opera houses and recital rooms.  It forced the image into Caterina's mind of her teacher and her friend sat at a dining table together, or perched together on a seat before a roaring fire, or--even worse--lying together in a bed, whatever unwelcome secrets Salieri's dark clothes hid exposed and free to brush against Aloysia's fair skin, her full lips, her delicate shoulders, her small, shapely bosom-

Aloysia draped her long gloves over the top of the harpsichord and arranged her face into a dramatic pout.  "Signorina Cavalieri," she said in a low, seething voice, "would- would you please take your place?"

The merciless impersonation startled a laugh out of Caterina and forced the dark thoughts from her mind.  She got up from the bench and curtsied.  "Maestro," she said, "how lovely you're looking today."

Aloysia made a show of being mortified, snatching up one of the gloves and dabbing it along her brow.  "Uh- signorina!" she stammered.  "Surely it isn't appropriate- at a lesson!"

"Oh, but it's true," Caterina said.  She leaned against the harpsichord, grinning at the pretend Salieri.  "Usually you look a bit- a bit hairy, a bit grim.  But today..." Caterina felt the smile slip off her face as she caught herself.  She straightened up.  "You do a fine impression of the maestro."

"Why, thank you."

"I imagine you would, though.  Given that you and he..." she let her gaze linger on Aloysia's belly before wrenching it to the floor.

"Oh," Aloysia said.  "Yes, of course."

"You know, if the maestro isn't able to receive me, I might as well leave," said Caterina hastily, indignation blooming in her breast.  "Thank you for entertaining me, but please let him know that I'll be on time for our next lesson, and I would very much appreciate it if he would attend himself instead of sending his mistress down in his stead."  She swept past the harpsichord, snatched up her cloak, and left the house without looking back.

 

 

 

When Wolfgang awoke, still bleary and slightly blinded by the sunlight pouring into the room, he saw Antonio's eyes blink shut.  A smile spread across his face: Antonio had been watching him sleep.

The two of them were barely balanced on the narrow cot Wolfgang had been assigned, but still he managed to slide closer.  He lifted his head enough to drop a kiss onto Antonio's cheek and smiled when Antonio grunted and peered suspiciously up at Wolfgang as though he had just woken up.

"Good morning," Wolfgang murmured, kissing his cheek again, then his forehead.  He worked one arm out from beneath the sheets and brushed the hair away from Antonio's face.  He was even prettier in the daylight.  His eyes were golden-brown, his dark hair shone in the morning sunlight, and his soft skin seemed to glow.  Wolfgang couldn't help kissing his face again, grinning against his cheek as Antonio groaned.  "I'm afraid I may have accidentally stolen you from a masked ball last night," Wolfgang said.  "Though I can't say I'm sorry to have done so."

Antonio made another noise, this time a little more like a sigh than a groan, but when his eyes met Wolfgang's the corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk.

"Signor Antonio," Wolfgang said fondly, propping himself up on one arm. 

When he lifted his free hand again to card his fingers through his hair, Antonio caught it and folded it against his chest.  "So... that all really happened?"

"What all really happened?"

"The- the waltz.  I lost my balance, and this woman caught me- but then the woman was- was you."

"You're a worse dancer than I am," Wolfgang grinned.

Antonio dropped his head back onto the pillow with another groan, and Wolfgang leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth.  "Wait- stop," Antonio said.  He caught his face in both hands and studied him with those incredible eyes.  A crease had appeared between his brows.

"Do you- do you want to go?" Wolfgang asked.  One unhappy look, and already the warm glow in his chest had started to sink into discomfort.  He had been overeager, hadn't he?  Antonio hadn't given any indication that he wanted more than a night together, just a release, something casual--and here Wolfgang was, fawning over him and kissing him the next morning like an old lover.  He started to lean away, but Antonio didn't let go of his face.  Wolfgang glanced at the furrow between his dark brows again.  "What's wrong?" he pressed.

"Don't- don't be offended," Antonio said, studying Wolfgang's face.

Wolfgang just nodded, too busy concentrating on suppressing the twin urges to slink away and to kiss him again to think of a reply.  If Antonio walked out of here now, Wolfgang wasn't sure he would be able to stand it.

Antonio caught his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, his gaze flicking down to Wolfgang's mouth as he admitted: "I don't remember your name."

A startled laugh burst out of Wolfgang's throat before he could contain it.  He peeled Antonio's hands away from his face and pressed one palm to his lips.

"I know you told me last night, but it must have slipped my mind, and then when you said my name I realized-"

Wolfgang cut him off with a kiss.  It wasn't until he felt Antonio's lips part beneath his that the tension finally eased out of his shoulders.  So he didn't want to leave him--not yet.  For the first time in years, Wolfgang had been presented with an opportunity and hadn't immediately ruined it.  He ran his hand down Antonio's chest, over his hip, and gripped his backside, pulling him closer.

When Antonio broke away for air, Wolfgang took advantage of the moment to push him onto his back and throw a leg over his waist.  He stayed there like that, sitting astride him with a hand on each of his shoulders, watching him catch his breath.  When Nannerl had said that they should trade costumes for the masked ball it had seemed like a silly game, a bit of mischievous fun.  He certainly hadn't expected a gorgeous Italian stranger to stagger into his arms halfway through a waltz.  He remembered the way Nannerl had glided away with Antonio's partner last night, her eyes sparkling behind her mask, and he couldn't help smiling.  Somehow, she had done this on purpose.  Nannerl was always taking care of him.

And from the first few awkward moments of their dance, Antonio had been perfect.  He had tried to hold himself with gravity, his lips pressed tightly together and his shoulders back while his feet were stumbling through the simple steps and his ears were burning red.  Wolfgang had never wanted to push anyone over and muss their hair more in his life.  Antonio had been apologizing and looking around for his partner until Wolfgang had said, "Let's finish this dance.  We'll find them after.  What's your name?"

"Antonio," he had replied, those warm eyes of his suddenly locked onto Wolfgang's.  "Are- are you-?"

"A man in a dress," Wolfgang had said cheerfully, and Antonio had nearly lost his balance.

They had both known from the first touch, from the moment the dance ended and Wolfgang had reached up and untied Antonio's mask, drawing him away from the floor.  Antonio hadn't released his waist, though his grip on Wolfgang's hip tightened when Wolfgang's fingers brushed across his cheek.  "Let's leave," Wolfgang had said, and Antonio had simply nodded.  And then they were in the privacy of the carriage, and then Wolfgang took off his mask and saw the dark heat in Antonio's eyes, and then Wolfgang had seized him by the cravat and pulled him into a deep, messy kiss.

"What?  Why are you looking at me like that?" Antonio asked.  His hands were perched on Wolfgang's bare hips now; his hair was spread across the pillow and his warm eyes were glowing in the morning light.

Wolfgang brushed his thumb across Antonio's lips.  "It's the only way I know how to look at you," he said.  "Please, let me keep looking a little while longer."

"You're being silly," grumbled Antonio, but then he kissed the pad of Wolfgang's thumb.

"No.  I could look at you forever.  I could write a symphony about your eyes alone."

Antonio's dark brows lifted.  "A symphony?  Do you write music?"

"I thought I did," Wolfgang said.  "But before I met you, I wrote only with the toneless voice of a mute man."

"Shut up," said Antonio, and he pulled him down for another kiss.

 

 

 

Caterina's landlady was in the entryway repairing a crack in the plaster when Caterina let herself in.  Her brown hair was gathered into a messy knot at the top of her head; her forehead and cheeks were smeared with plaster where she had been brushing errant strands away from her eyes.  At the sight of her tenant, she clambered to her feet as quickly as she could and planted her chalky fists on her hips.  "Well?"

"Well what?" Caterina asked, eyeing the stairway behind her.  She just wanted to unlace her stays and throw herself onto her bed.

"You know exactly what," said the landlady.

"Frau Grandsart-"

"Were you at your lesson or not?"

"I was," Caterina answered.  She edged toward the narrow gap between her landlady's elbow at the wall.

But the landlady stepped into her path.  "And?"

"And Maestro Salieri failed to attend, so I left."

"Fraulein," the landlady said impatiently.  "Was she there or not?"

An unwelcome heat spread across Caterina's cheeks.  She shot another glance over her shoulder.  "Frau Grandsart, I don't think-"

"She was, wasn't she?  Well!  What did you tell her?"

"I'm very tired and not in the mood to-"

The landlady clapped her hand to her forehead, sending up a little puff of plaster dust.  "Oh, you poor girl!  You didn't say a word!  You didn't tell her anything, did you?"

"I-!  How do you dare-?  Did I-! Did- Did I...."

Frau Grandsart raised an eyebrow.

Caterina let out a long breath.  "I stormed out," she admitted.

"Again?  Poor dear!" clucked the landlady.  "How will she ever know how you feel if you don't tell her?"

"I don't want to tell her if she doesn't feel the same way!" Caterina insisted.  How many times did she have to say it?  "And before you ask, I know she doesn't feel the same way because she's carrying Herr Salieri's child!"

"So?  When an ambitious soprano lets the emperor's favorite composer take her as his mistress, it hardly means she's found true love."

"But... oh, you should see them together, Frau Grandsart.  With their dark hair and their fine clothes and their poise, they're like a matched set.  He actually smiles when he looks at her."

"But she smiles when she looks at you," the landlady reminded her.

Caterina rolled her eyes.

"My poor dear," said Frau Grandsart, cupping Caterina's face in her plaster-flecked hands.  "Hop along to your room and get out of those fine things.  Then you can keep me company while I finish this."  She gestured toward the half-filled crack.

"Alright," Caterina said, "but you won't convince me to make a fool out of myself in front of my loveliest friend."  When the landlady released her, she gathered her skirts and started up the creaky staircase to her room.

"Hey- hold on!  Do you have plans for Tuesday afternoon?" Frau Grandsart called after her.

Caterina paused on the landing.  "I don't think so," she admitted, bracing herself for the invitation she knew would follow.

"Come with me to the Lavender Room, then.  At the very least you may meet someone to take your mind off that Aloysia of yours."

Caterina caught her lower lip in her teeth, only remembering she was wearing makeup at the bitter taste of rouge.  It was not the first time Frau Grandsart had invited her to one of her meetings, but Caterina had always found a reason to decline.  It hadn't seemed right, not when the sound of Aloysia's voice was always lingering in the back of her mind.  But Aloysia was going to be the mother of Herr Salieri's child.  If there had been any hope that she might feel the same warmth of possibility between them, it had been smothered long ago.  Smothered under the weight of Antonio Salieri, under the weight of a pregnant belly.  Or maybe it had been extinguished due to Caterina's own hesitation. Due to neglect. 

She met her landlady's eye again and nodded.  "I'll go," she said, her voice so low that she wondered if it had even carried down to the entryway.  "I should try to move on."

 

 

  

Wolfgang had been to the imperial palace before, or so he was told.  His memories of his childhood were mostly an unending procession of concert halls and powdered faces, of polite applause and his father's heavy hand on his shoulder.  After a while, it had all started to look the same.

He waited between two footmen outside one of the music rooms, his heartbeat pounding impatiently in his ears.  Colloredo had spent the past two weeks rejecting every invitation he had received for Wolfgang or his family to appear at various salons and concerts, but when an invitation had arrived from the emperor himself, Colloredo was powerless to decline.  So here he was at the palace in his best clothes, feeling a lot younger and a lot smaller than he had felt in a long time.

An attendant arrived at last and the footmen opened the tall doors to the music hall.  On the other side of a long expanse of marble floor, the emperor sat in the middle of a cluster of well-dressed nobles.  Wolfgang's heart leapt.  He remembered what Nannerl had told him as she'd rocked up onto her toes to kiss his forehead this morning: he needed only to hold himself like a member of the imperial court, and before too much longer he would be one.  If the emperor was familiar with his music, there was nothing but Wolfgang's reputation that might prevent him from commissioning him and finally giving him a path out of Colloredo's employ.

It took all of Wolfgang's resolve to match his pace to the attendant's; inside, he wanted nothing more than to tear across the great hall, throw himself at the emperor's feet, and beg for a position at the court.  He squared his shoulders and thought of Nannerl.  With only a modicum of his shrewd sister's poise, he would secure that commission.  He would make his way back to this court one day, even without his father's help.  Even against his employer's wishes.

A simple little tune suddenly began to clank through the hall, and Wolfgang turned his eyes away from the emperor in search of its source.  An ornate harpsichord was arranged in the corner, almost lost in the enormity of the room, and a man was seated before it with his back to Wolfgang.  This must be the current court composer, Wolfgang thought as he noted the man's stiff posture and methodical form.  Salieri, an Italian.  They were all Italian these days, weren't they?  He had heard some of his music performed in Salzburg, though it was hard to remember it.  Wolfgang could have his position by the end of the year if this meeting went well.

Salieri's song ended only a moment after Wolfgang and the attendant arrived before the emperor; Wolfgang waited until he saw the composer lift his hands from the keys before he threw out his arms and bowed.  "Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, at your service," he said, unsure how to keep his tone balanced between honesty and humility.

"Herr Mozart," the emperor crowed, "how good of you to come!"

"It was good of you to invite me, Majesty," said Wolfgang.

There was a heavy thud from the corner: he looked up to see that the court composer had apparently tripped over the leg of the harpsichord bench and was sprawled gracelessly on the floor.  Without thinking, Wolfgang hurried over to help him up.  It wasn't until Salieri lifted his head and fixed a familiar dark stare on Wolfgang's outstretched hand that he realized what had flustered him so.   _Antonio_ Salieri.  His Italian Antonio from the masked ball was the court composer to the emperor of Austria.

"Are you alright there, my dear Salieri?" the emperor called, half-rising from his ornate chair.  A man in an overworked wig and a black suit had taken a few uncertain steps away from the emperor's entourage, but none of the others besides Wolfgang had even moved to help Antonio off the floor.

But then Antonio pushed himself to his feet and stepped around Wolfgang as though he wasn't even there.  "Excuse me, your Majesty," he said in that same smooth voice he had used to murmur in Wolfgang's ear last weekend in his bed.  For a beat, Wolfgang imagined himself seizing his shoulders and shoving him back down onto the bench, climbing into his lap and tearing off his jacket right here in front of the entire imperial court.  But then he steadied himself and returned to his place before the emperor, keeping his gaze fixed on his Majesty's sparkling silver shoes.  His heart was racing.

"Young Mozart!" the emperor said loudly.  "It has come to my attention that our friend Colloredo doesn't wish for you to write for anyone other than him, is that correct?  And yet he hasn't given you a commission in nearly a year?"

"That's exactly it, Majesty," Wolfgang said.  He glanced over the emperor's shoulder at Antonio, who was staring resolutely at the back of the emperor's chair.

"And yet, he has allowed you to honor my invitation today, isn't that right?"

"Well- you're the emperor, your Majesty," said Wolfgang.

This earned a chorus of titters from the emperor's entourage.  The man in the ugly wig elbowed Antonio in the side and winked at him; when Antonio looked up at Wolfgang again, his eyes were hard and his lips were pressed into a tight line.  A wave of cold dread washed over him.  What could he have done wrong?  He had kissed Antonio all the way to the door last weekend, and Antonio had only released him after making him promise that he would still be in Vienna in a week's time, and that he would receive him then just has he had after the masquerade.  Then he had smoothed his clothes, cleared his throat, and walked out.  Wolfgang hadn't seen him since.  How had he managed to ruin this opportunity for happiness while the two of them were apart?

"Quite right," the emperor was saying cheerfully, fixing Wolfgang with his lazy grin.  "And, given that I am the emperor, I believe our Colloredo will find himself unable to deny another request if I make one of you.  Dear Mozart, I would like to give you a commission."

A little man in an enormous powdered wig muttered, "Your Majesty!"

"Quiet!" the emperor snapped.

Wolfgang had not taken his eyes off Antonio, whose ears were beginning to turn red just as they had that night at the masked ball.  He squared his shoulders. "Let it be a symphony, your Majesty."

A muscle jumped in Antonio's jaw.

"A symphony?  Really?  Why would you like to write a symphony, Herr Mozart?"

"Because I have written with the toneless voice of a mute man all my life, Majesty," Wolfgang said, his eyes still on Antonio.  "I believe that I have found a new voice here in Vienna, and I'd like everyone to hear it."

Antonio seemed to sway where he stood.

"A love song for Vienna in the format of a symphony!" the emperor mused.  "Well!  I couldn't possibly deny you this chance to let us hear your new voice, Herr Mozart."

Wolfgang dropped into a low bow and mumbled his thanks.  When he straightened up again, Antonio Salieri had left the room.

 

 

 

Whatever Caterina had imagined when her landlady spoke of the Lavender Room, this wasn't it.  She had expected heavy drapes to be drawn over the windows; she had expected furtive glances and hushed whispers; she had expected some level of embarrassment and secrecy over the proclivities of the women who assembled there.  But when she and her landlady had reached the landing and the door had been thrown open, Caterina had been met with an airy salon full of mismatched furniture, pastel day dresses, and easy smiles.  There were perhaps a dozen women here, their ages ranging from a grey-haired working woman seated regally next to the fireplace to the rosy cheeks of a blonde near Caterina's age whose head was rested in the lap of her delicate companion.  The glances Caterina received were curious and welcoming, free of judgement.  There was no one at the door to bar her entry on the grounds that she had never actually acted on her feelings.  There was no one to ask her if she really belonged here with the rest of them.  There were just their open smiles.

"I received a letter," one woman announced shortly after their arrival.  She plopped an envelope onto a side table and the others looked up expectantly. 

"Is it from her?" someone asked.

"I don't know." The woman ran a finger along the seal.  "I think so."

"Haven't you opened it?"

When she shook her head, the others began to groan.  There were calls for her to read it at once.

Caterina sat back in her seat, twisting her hands in her lap and waiting. She glanced over at Frau Grandsart, who had settled into a floral armchair and was sipping at a cup of tea.  She seemed to have forgotten Caterina was new to the group.

The woman who had spoken took up her letter again and toyed with the edge of the seal.  The color was quickly draining from her face.  Caterina glanced around the room and caught the eye of the rosy-cheeked blonde, who smiled at her expression.  "Clara keeps seeing the most charming girl at the park," she explained, leaning up from her companion's lap.  "Last week she left a letter on her bench, and today she seems to have received a response."

Caterina looked up at Clara, the woman with the letter.  She had left another woman a note just because she was charming?  What could she have possibly admitted to someone she didn't even know?  What if the other woman had been offended by it?  What if she told others what she'd said?

The blonde's companion, a delicate brunette in a frothy blue dress, bounced off the divan and snatched the letter off the side table.  "May I read it?"

Clara nodded and sank onto a stool.  Caterina found herself watching her as the little brunette tore open the seal: she couldn't remember the last time she had seen terror and anticipation battle so visibly for a person's heart.  It reminded her of the way she had felt last Saturday morning in Salieri's music room when she had accidentally called Aloysia lovely.

The brunette's eyes shot up from the letter and Clara rose to her feet, wringing her hands.  "What is it?"

Caterina found herself leaning forward with the other women in the room.

And then a smile curled across the brunette's lips and she passed Clara her letter.  "Her name is Raffaela and she hopes you'll stop and speak to her tomorrow afternoon."

There were a few cheers from the assembled women and scattered applause as Clara snatched the letter back and clutched it to her chest. Her cheeks were burning red.

The blonde who had been sprawled across the divan caught Caterina's eye.  "A happy ending!" she said, and then she patted the empty seat next to her.  "You're new here, right?  What's your name?"

After casting an uncertain glance in Frau Grandsart's direction (she gotten ahold of the letter and was reading it for herself) Caterina abandoned her seat and joined the blonde on the couch.  "I'm Caterina," she said, wondering too late if she should have come up with an alias.  Would it hurt her career if the men at the court found out that she had no intention of marrying any of them?  At least she had stopped short of identifying herself as La Cavalieri.

"It's my first time here, too," the blonde said.  "I never would have imagined-!  But Friday night I met Nannerl, and here I am."

"Here we are," the brunette who had read the letter said, and she dropped to a seat in her companion's lap.  "I'm Nannerl.  Nice to meet you."

Caterina averted her eyes when Nannerl pressed a kiss to the blonde's temple.  As she scanned the unfamiliar faces gathered in the room, she felt like a fist was closing gradually over her heart.  There were beautiful women everywhere, all of them guaranteed to share her tastes in companion, but none of them were the same.  None of them had Aloysia's warmth, her sharpness.  None of them had her burning gaze.  She clasped her hands in her lap and frowned down at them, clenching her jaw as the familiar thought took shape: she barely belonged in this world any more than she did in society.  She was too particular, too focused on the one person who would never return her feelings.  She was never going to plop down into a waiting lap the way Nannerl had just done.  She was never going to feel someone's arms lace around her or feel soft lips graze over her skin.

Before she fell too deep into self-pity, Caterina turned her gaze back to Clara, the woman who had written the letter.  She was perched on her stool again, breathlessly rereading the mystery woman's response.  "What did she say?" Caterina heard herself ask.  "How did she- how do you tell someone-?"  When she looked at the pretty couple at her side, she found them both watching her with sweet expressions of pity.  "For you, then.  On Friday, how did you tell each other how you felt?  How did you both know?"

The women exchanged a warm glance, grins spreading across their faces.  "I knew when you didn't let go of my hand," Nannerl said.  "And from the look on your face when I took off my mask and you called me pretty."

"I told her I needed a push," said the blonde.

Caterina huffed.  "A push?  I suppose I could say the same."

"You have your eye on someone?" asked Nannerl.

"Tell us about her!"

Caterina started to catch her lip between her teeth, but remembered the rouge and stopped herself.  "She's... she's sharp-tongued and elegant.  When she speaks, her voice is delicate and fragile and poisonous, all at once.  And when she sings..."  Caterina closed her eyes.

"I like the sound of her," Nannerl said.  "Have you ever told her how you feel?"

Caterina's eyes shot open.  "What?  I couldn't!  After all, she's pregnant with Maestro Salieri's child, so-"

"Oh my god!  Are you talking about Aloysia Lange?" interrupted the blonde.

Caterina clapped both hands over her face and groaned.

"She is, isn't she?" said Nannerl.  And then, to Caterina's horror, she laughed.  "What are the chances!"

"Caterina... are you Caterina Cavalieri?  The Caterina Cavalieri?  Oh my god," the blonde said again.

"Wait, Aloysia's Cavalieri?"

"And she's here!  I don't believe it!"

Caterina dropped her hands and shot to her feet, embarrassment turning to fear.  "If either of you dare say anything-" she began, her voice thick.

But the blonde seized her by the arm and pulled her back down onto the divan, saying, "No, oh darling, no, you've got it all wrong!"

"Where is Aloysia?" Nannerl was saying.  "I assumed she would be here.  After all, she's the one who told us about this place."

"Aloysia is my sister," the blonde said.  "I'm Constance Weber.  And if you're really Caterina Cavalieri-!  Darling, Aloysia has been in love with you for months."

The words seeped into Caterina's skin like a sudden chill.  "She what?"

"You're all she talks about," Aloysia's sister said.

"But Salieri-"

"Is terrified of women," Nannerl cut in.  "The last time I saw him, he was in the arms of my little brother."

"Please don't spread that around," said Constance, shooting Nannerl a stern look.

"And the baby?"

Constance shrugged.  "Her husband has decided that he wants to ensure the legacy of the Lange name.  She didn't really have a choice in the matter."

Caterina looked back and forth between their bright, sincere faces.  This was impossible.  Over in the corner, Frau Grandsart was chatting away with the silver-haired working woman.  Had she arranged for this to happen?  Had she asked these women to lie to her to make her feel better?

"Here, I have a suggestion," Constance said, gathering one of Caterina's hands in both of hers.  "The next time you see Aloysia, tell her that you came to the Lavender Room and were disappointed she didn't attend.  She comes here every week for the same reasons the rest of us do.  And if I've somehow managed to be wrong about my sister--my sister who tells me everything, by the way--then the words won't mean anything to her.  But if she understands-"

"Give her a push," said Nannerl with a wink.

  

 

 

"Antonio!  Wait," Wolfgang called, breaking into a sprint.  His footsteps echoed about the ornate hallway.

At the sound of his name, Antonio stopped so abruptly that Wolfgang very nearly collided with him.  He spun around, both hands balled into fists at his sides.

"Antonio," Wolfgang said again, and despite the look on his face he found himself grinning.  "Antonio Salieri!"

"What do you want,  _Mozart_?" Antonio gritted, the name clumsy and foreign on his lips.

Wolfgang felt his grin falter.  "To- to speak with you.  To comment on the fact that of all the people who could have fallen into my arms last weekend, it was a fellow composer.  And to ask if I can still expect to see you again Friday evening."

"Shut up!  Are you insane?" Antonio asked, looking up and down the long, empty hallway.  He gave his cuffs an irritable tug, then turned on his heel, saying, "Don't follow me again," over his shoulder as he started to walk away.

Wolfgang stayed where he was for a beat, but with every step Antonio took he felt the room getting colder.  He turned a corner and disappeared entirely, and Wolfgang broke into a run.  "Antonio!"

On the other side of the corner, two of the people he had seen in the emperor's entourage had been waiting for their colleague.  The small gentleman in the towering wig glowered at Wolfgang and grumbled, "I believe Herr Mozart wants to talk to you, my friend."

The man in the black suit chuckled.

"Uh- excuse me, Maestro Salieri," Wolfgang said quickly, dropping into a brief bow.  "I only wanted to say that my symphony- it's the one I told you about."

Antonio turned slowly, deliberately, and fixed Wolfgang with that same hard stare he had seen in the great hall.  "I don't know what you mean."

"It's about love!" Wolfgang blurted.  "I- I hope you'll come and listen to it when it's finished."

"Mozart," said Antonio, that muscle in his jaw flexing again.  He glanced over his shoulder at his two companions.  "I don't know what has given you the idea that I'm interested in you- in your vulgar music," he said, "but it simply isn't true.  Now, if you'll please let me continue on my way.  Good luck with your symphony."

The man in the dark suit shot Wolfgang a pitying glance as the three of them swept away, leaving Wolfgang alone with the music that was raging inside his head, louder and more despairing now than it had ever been before.

When they were gone, he swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and gave his lapels a tug before turning his back on the court composer. 

He needed to write.

 

 

 

Salieri was moodier than usual at their next lesson, but at least he bothered to attend.  Caterina didn't mention the previous week, and neither did he.  He also didn't mention her bad form or the way her voice kept wavering on the high notes.  He didn't even flinch.  

As for Caterina, she couldn't wrest her gaze away from the door through which Aloysia had so often entered, steeling herself each time a floorboard creaked or the wind shifted against the side of the building.  Was Aloysia here?  Was Aloysia not here?  Even if it was true that Salieri was only her friend and not her lover, she always seemed to be in his home whenever Caterina arrived for a lesson.

A thought settled into the pit of Caterina's stomach: what if what the women at the Lavender Room had said was true, and the reason Aloysia always seemed to be hanging around Salieri's house when Caterina had a lesson was--because Caterina was there, having a lesson?

No, that was ridiculous.  Aloysia was icy and composed, reserved and quick-witted.  She certainly wasn't out there pining for Caterina, of all people.  She certainly wasn't organizing her schedule around opportunities to accidentally encounter her, to wander into Salieri's music room on a Saturday morning and feign surprise at seeing her friend despite the fact that she was here every week. That was beneath someone like her.  Caterina was being silly.

But then that door slid open and Aloysia entered the room.  She cast a cool gaze toward the harpsichord and raised her eyebrows when she spotted Caterina.  "Oh!" she said lightly.  "Caterina!  How nice to see you!"

Salieri stopped playing but didn't turn around, fixing a seething stare on the keys beneath his hands.

"Aloysia," Caterina said.  And as Aloysia glided across the room, Caterina saw a subtle flush rising in her cheeks.

Oh, god.  It was all true.

Caterina cleared her throat.  "I- I meant to tell you that I met your sister, I think.  Constance?"

"Did you?" A shallow crease appeared between her well-shaped brows.  "Really?  Wherever did you meet Constance?"

"The Lavender Room," Caterina answered, her voice a little too loud.  "It's- uh, I went-"

Aloysia seemed to reel for a moment, unconsciously putting a hand on Herr Salieri's shoulder for support.  "You were in the Lavender Room?"

"They told me... they told me sometimes you attend."  She found herself staring at Aloysia's gloved hand, at the fingers that were digging into Salieri's coat.  Salieri shot a sulky scowl at it, but didn't lift his own hands from the harpsichord.

"Yes- I was one of the founders," Aloysia said.

"Ah."

"But you-?"

Salieri huffed impatiently and Aloysia shushed him.

Though Caterina found herself wishing she too could hold on to something for support or sink into a chair, she had to collect herself.  She looked at Aloysia's squared shoulders, at her rounded belly, at the hand that was still gripping the shoulder of the man all Vienna believed was her lover.  But then she looked at her pink cheeks, at the grim set of Salieri's mouth, at the wide-eyed stare Aloysia had fixed on her the first moment she had named the Lavender Room.  There was no more reason to doubt.

Gathering every bit of nerve she could summon, Caterina reached out and pushed Aloysia's hand off Herr Salieri's shoulder.  She laced their fingers together and drew her stunned friend forward.  "Next time," she said, barely able to hear her voice over the roar in her ears, "do you think you might accompany me there?"

Salieri cleared his throat.

"Oh, shut up, Antonio," Aloysia said over her shoulder, and then she cupped the back of Caterina's head in her free hand and pulled her up into a kiss.

 

 

 

 

The symphony was exactly right, even by Wolfgang's standards.  It was a sunny Saturday morning, a languorous embrace, a warm regard.  It was a beacon of peace in the middle of turbulence; it was comfort.  His oasis.  But beneath it all, beneath the relieved tranquility, there was a note of longing.

Wolfgang had waited by the servants' entrance Friday night, perched on the stoop with his music spread across his knees, and Antonio had not come.  After the way he had been in the palace, Wolfgang hadn't expected him to.  He had scribbled away at his symphony while he waited and felt the weight of his failure pressing down on him even here in Vienna.  Even while he worked on a commission for the emperor.

But now he was the imperial music hall, leading the imperial orchestra, and the court had no choice but to be in attendance.  Wolfgang had stood impatiently at his post and watched the emperor arrive, courtiers filing in behind him and filling the box, and had tapped his baton anxiously against his leg until he had seen that glimmer of black, that neat beard, that grim stare. 

Antonio.  His stupid heart leapt at the sight of him.  His baton felt heavy when he lifted it; for the first time since he was a child, Wolfgang wondered what would happen if no one understood his music.

He felt Antonio's dark stare on him the whole time he was conducting, and it took all his reserve not to spin around and stare right back.  Did he hear the plea in the strings' melody?  Did he hear the promise the woodwinds were describing?  What did he imagine when he remembered the night they had spent together?  How did he feel when he pictured Wolfgang's face?

The audience began their applause as soon as Wolfgang lowered his arms, ever so slightly more boisterous than polite.  He lifted his eyes to the imperial box and discovered that the emperor himself had risen to his feet to clap and the rest of Vienna was following suit. 

At the back of the imperial box, Antonio alone was still seated.  Even from where he stood, Wolfgang could see that his hands were curled into fists against his knees.

He dropped into a low bow, holding it a good deal longer than customary.  Holding it long enough to choke back a wave of despair as it coursed over him.  Holding it until he was sure his eyes would be dry when he faced the emperor again.

 

 

 

"Go on," Aloysia said, dropping a quick kiss onto Caterina's forehead.  "Wolfgang will come if I'm the one who asks him to.  He used to be quite smitten with me, you know.  He wrote me-"

"An aria, yes, I know!"

That mischievous smile curled across her lips.  "There's no need to be jealous, my darling.  It's business.  I'll ask Wolfgang, and you ask Antonio."

Caterina was going to roll her eyes at the use of Salieri's first name, but Aloysia had slipped away before she had a chance.

Maestro Salieri was still seated at the back of the emperor's box, glowering at the orchestra as they packed away their instruments.  Glaring at the crowd that was pressed in around Herr Mozart.  When Caterina said, "Maestro?" he started so badly that she half-expected him to lose his balance and topple out of the seat.

"Oh- uh, Signorina Cavalieri," he mumbled, rising and inclining his head in greeting.  "Good evening."

She curtsied in reply.  "Maestro, I've just been speaking with Aloysia-"

"Hm. Yes," said Salieri.  

Caterina had to drop her gaze to the floor when she noticed his ears were turning red.  She had last seen Salieri at their lesson on Saturday, when she had finally mustered the courage to tell Aloysia how she felt.  When Aloysia had pushed her up against Salieri's harpsichord and kissed her while Salieri was still seated at the bench.  "She mentioned that she had to tell you something.  She's in one of the music rooms."

After casting another dark look at the orchestra, Salieri tugged at his cuffs and nodded.

Over his shoulder, Caterina saw Aloysia pulling Herr Mozart aside and gesturing toward the music rooms.  She turned away before the maestro could see her grin.

 

 

 

Aloysia Weber!

Wolfgang had never expected to see her again after that night in Paris, but here she was, resplendent as ever!

And yet his stomach began to churn as he followed her down a long hallway with his symphony folded under his arm.  Did she intend to take him as a lover now, after all these years?  Now that he'd gotten a commission from the emperor?  Now that all of Vienna had stood and applauded his symphony?  That couldn't be right.  The only warmth he had seen on her face when she had spoken to him was passive fondness for an old friend.  And, of course, there was the fact that she was rather visibly pregnant.  He was probably safe.

She opened a door and turned to face Wolfgang with a sly smile.  As he approached, he heard a familiar voice saying, "Aloysia?  There you are.  What's the meaning of-?"

And then he had turned the corner and found himself facing Antonio Salieri.

Antonio went silent at the sight of him, his hands balling into fists and the color draining from his face again.  He turned a stony stare on Aloysia.

"Oh, shut up, Antonio!" she said, and she planted a hand between Wolfgang's shoulder blades and shoved him into the room.

Then she closed the door and left the two of them alone, with only by an old portrait of the emperor's ancestors to preside over this unexpected reunion.  A fire was popping cheerfully on the hearth.

Antonio huffed and dropped onto a chair, crossing his arms and grumbling something under his breath.  Wolfgang heard himself heave a sigh.  Even as he sat there fuming, Antonio was beautiful.  Here came that wave of indignant desperation rising in the back of Wolfgang's throat again.  He tossed his music onto a table, stormed across the room, and planted himself directly in Antonio's line of vision, his hands on his hips as he demanded, "Well?  What did I do to make you hate me so much?"

"Mozart," Antonio said, still lingering over the name as though it were poison, "music like yours is-"

"Is 'vulgar.'  I get it!  So you hate my music!  Does that mean that everything that happened between us has to-?"

"Your music," he said again, raising his voice but not his eyes, "is electrifying.  You write like no one else."

Wolfgang fists slipped away from his hips as Antonio's words hung in the air between them.  "You- you think so?"

He nodded once, his jaw clenched.

"So... if you like my music, and you like me, then why-?"

"Because I can't do this," Antonio interrupted, launching himself to his feet. 

But when he tried to brush past him toward the door, Wolfgang seized his arm.  "Antonio, please," he said.

He spun on his heel, his fiery gaze resting on Wolfgang's fingers where they were twisted in the fabric of his sleeve.

"The symphony," Wolfgang said.  "It was about you.  About us.  About our night together." He tugged Antonio closer, only releasing his arm after he had draped it around his waist.  He wound both his arms around Antonio's neck.  "About our first dance."

Antonio let out a long breath, but when Wolfgang stepped back he followed without releasing him.  He let himself be led in an awkward, tuneless waltz.

After a moment Wolfgang pulled him closer, pressing his forehead against the side of his neck and breathing in the smell of him, the smell of that sunny morning when they had both been tucked into his narrow bed.

"I can't do this," Antonio murmured, but his grip on Wolfgang's waist had tightened.

"Why not?"

"Your music!  If you were anyone else, if you were a baron or a butcher it would be different, but you- all these years, that music was yours.  Was you."

"Not today, not just me," Wolfgang said.  He lifted his head and cupped Antonio's cheek in his hand, forcing him to meet his eye.  "Not that symphony.  The symphony was us."

"Us," repeated Antonio with a bitter laugh.

But when Wolfgang leaned up and brought their faces together, their noses just touching and their breath mingling in the space between them, it was Antonio who gave in first and kissed him. 

The taste of his mouth, his soft lips, the prickle of his beard!  Wolfgang could hear the music swelling to life once more, deafening this time.  His heartbeat was like a drum when he pulled away.  "Us," he said firmly.  He had barely gotten the syllable out before Antonio was kissing him again.

 

 

 

"So?" Caterina asked.  She was sprawled across the bench with her head in Aloysia's lap, her cheek pressed to the firm mound of her stomach.  "What do you think they're doing in there?"

Aloysia smirked, tracing a line from Caterina's temple to her jaw, then along her neck, her touch just light enough to tease.

"I think the maestro is going to kill him," Caterina went on.  "If you opened that door right now, he'd have his hands wrapped around Herr Mozart's neck."

"Hm," Aloysia said, glancing over her shoulder.  They had pushed their bench in front of the door to the music room and were sitting on it in case one of the composers attempted to escape.  "If anything," she said, "I'd expect to see one of them with his legs wrapped around the other's waist."

"Aloysia!"

"You don't know them."

Caterina sat up and crawled into Aloysia's lap, straddling her hips as best she could with her little belly between them.  "Will they be doing this, then?  Your lovers?"

"You're the only lover I want," Aloysia said.  She tucked her hands beneath Caterina's backside and pulled her closer.  "They're both plain, clumsy creatures compared to you."

Caterina could feel the flush blooming across her cheeks.  Had it always been this difficult to collect her thoughts in Aloysia's presence, or had she become a fool the moment these slender arms wrapped around her?  

She was spared coming up with a response by a crash from inside the music room.  Caterina and Aloysia stared at each other for a moment of pure shock before clambering off the bench and quickly pushing it out of the way.  In the handful of seconds it took them to open the door, a whole host of scenarios had played out in Caterina's mind.  It seemed she had been right after all: Wolfgang Mozart was actually in danger.

Caterina and Aloysia stormed into the music room together, unsure exactly what two sopranos could do to break up a brawling pair of musicians, only to find themselves facing a rumpled, dazed Salieri straddling Mozart in the middle of a pile of debris that must have once been an ottoman.  His hair had come loose from its ribbon, his cravat was missing, and his shift was completely untucked from his breeches.  If it wasn't for Mozart's unbuttoned waistcoat and the wide grin on his face, Caterina would have thought she was right to be worried for Mozart's safety after all.

The four of them remained motionless for a beat, staring at each other with varying levels of horror and amusement, until Aloysia finally curled an arm around Caterina's waist and began backing out of the room.

"Uh- please don't tell Da Ponte," Salieri mumbled, which sent Mozart into a fit of giggles beneath him.

But Aloysia already had an airy smile on her face and that wicked glint in her eye that always made Caterina's heart lurch.  She placed her free hand on her belly and said, "You know, this must be the only child in the world with two mothers and three fathers.  What an unfortunate little thing."

As they were closing the door to the music room again, Caterina could have sworn she saw Maestro Salieri biting back a smile.


End file.
